


Possibly, Maybe Falling For You

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fathertime, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suits-- you see them all day, just about every day, but there's one that really stands out and a smile that goes along with it that you just can't get enough of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibly, Maybe Falling For You

You’d never really given suits much serious thought. Working at the toll booth between Tacoma and the island didn’t really require you to whip out your Sunday best all that often and you weren’t about to just toss one on and saunter your ass down the street willy-nilly. 

You had that plush monstrosity Bro’d sewn for your senior prom though, and the black, second hand thing stuffed in your closet that you saved for job interviews but you hardly counted them as real suits. And wearing them just for the hell of it?

Nah. That wasn’t really your game. 

You saw enough of them as it was, from the business guys making the great migration to and from work each day to the hopeful college grad looking to land a job that was gonna make him bank as long as he looked professional and had a firm grasp on how to lie through his teeth.

They were kind of interesting though— the suits, not the people. 

You’d made a mental list of all the ones that passed though. You had the classy guys that smelled like too much after shave and new car. Then there were the in-a-hurry guys that were always tightening their ties as they passed you off the fare for the bridge, clumsy and littering the ground with spare change as they tried for a few extra seconds to catch up with their day. Next came the slob-y ones, labeled for the greasy prints left on the off-white of their shirts and the ever present dirty cuffs. You didn’t really like handling their cash and kept a bottle of sanitizer at the ready. And, lastly, there was kind of an oddball group, the one you threw those guys in baby blue and denim into. The mix and matchers with their peach shirts, brown jackets, and green ties went in there as well and you were never really sure how they ended up with that combination but, hey, you were the one sitting around in the toll booth, not drivin’ their expensive cars. 

Most people fit into a category pretty easily and you didn’t think much of it, but then you’d had to add another column— something for that smooth kind of class you’d only ever really seen on old timers like Tony Bennett on a PBS special or two. 

It’d been strange to see the hat like that. You’d gotten used to the shitty knock offs everyone wore now, labeling all that shit incorrectly but this guy… You’re pretty sure this guy knew exactly what he was wearing and you’re pretty sure the thing didn’t come from the second hand bin at the Good Will. And that tie, neat, clean cut and some bright shade of blue. It was pretty clear, even— the color, you mean— like the sky and that should have been a good enough sign for you that you were officially going off the deep end. 

Classing dudes in suits and hoarding hand sanitizer, making shitty comparisons between a hunk of material and the sky… 

It wasn’t though and, as usual, you’d brushed it off. 

It was ironic. It didn’t matter if you wanted to compare this guy’s eyes to the ocean or his skin to porcelain or whip out the big guns and throw down some poetry on left over receipts, silent odes to his pearly white smile and broad shoulders. 

It was okay. 

It was cool, funny, even; a way to pass the time.

—and then it wasn’t. 

Because he came back, day after day, and he asked you how you were doing, if you were staying warm enough in the colder months, if you were alright when you’d been out for three days with a sinus infection. 

The guy was nice. He saved you a smile. He brushed it off when you’d just stared at him like an idiot the first time he’d used your name and hadn’t laughed when you’d asked how he’d known it and he’d pointed to your name tag. 

He was fucking nice and it was going to be the death of you. 

It the cold didn’t get your first, at least. 

Winter in Washington was nothing to sneeze at. Fuck, you wouldn’t be caught dead cracking a joke about it anymore, considering your balls are about ready to drop off and all you want to do it keep the window shut but, no, you have a job to do. Because you like to eat and not starve and all of that other good shit. 

Even the exhaust from your last customer doesn’t last long, dissipating before you can even ask if the asshole wanted his receipt and you snap the sliding window shut with a scowl. 

Stupid fucker’s going to drive right through the gate one of these days and you’re going to have to sit around and clean up the mess. 

Shaking your head, you rub your hands together. Your fingers are pink from the cold air and you whine when another car hits the alert line and slump forward briefly. You’re ready to go home and have a shower and get some feeling back in your ass. The booth might be heated but it doesn’t last long with the window letting all of the hot air out. 

There’s a rap against your window, letting you know your pity party is over for the moment, and you turn, sliding the window open once again. There’s a familiar face waiting for you and an apology is on the tip of your tongue when a hand is lifted and the guy in the car shakes his head.

"There’s no need." 

You should probably apologize anyway, but his smile is warm and anything that makes you even the slightest bit less ass-freezingly cold, you’ll take.

So you just nod at Mister Nice Guy, as you’ve so creatively named him, and flash a weak smile of your own. “Hey."

"Good evening. You’re looking rather chilly today." 

"Just a bit," you mumble, holding out a hand for the bills he’s shuffling through. 

He passes them over, giving you an amused smile and you bite back the urge to sigh as you ring up the fare and print out the receipt. He always takes the receipt and he always smiles. 

"And… you’re good to go," you tell him, holding out the slip of paper. “Have a good evening, Sir." 

He takes the paper, tucking it into his wallet as usual and you take the chance to glance over him when he nods, reaching for the window to roll it back up. “James." 

"…what?" 

His eyebrows lift, that earlier amusement clear in the way his lips twitch and you swear to god his eyes light up when he looks at you. “My name, it’s James." 

"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course, sorry." You nod, cutting off your own babbling, and try to will away the heat in your cheeks because his laugh is just as warm as his smile and when he bids you a good evening, he tips his hat and you can barely do more than wave as you’re left staring after him like an idiot. 

And when your attention is yanked back to the next, clean cut suit in line, you’ve forgotten all about being cold and all you can see is what this guy’s lacking. His tie is grey. His sleeves are kind of rumpled and he definitely doesn’t have a smile to spare you and, most of all, you don’t really care because he’s not Mister Nice Guy— James. 

…he’s not James… and you’re starting to realize just how much that might actually mean.


End file.
